About half an hour ago, in the tall grass of the park near our home, I found George's tail.

It was near the ditch George liked to explore. Overgrown with bushes and low trees, stretching the length of our big park, it is a regular cat heaven. When we'd walk there, he'd disappear into this area, jumping out at us from time to time as if to say, "Surprise!". Once, we found him high up in a tree, looking down at us with great amusement in his green eyes.

At first, I dismissed this small tuft of fur as some cat's tail. Not mine. The spaces between the orange tabby stripes on this five-inch section - all that was left of this little animal - were too wide. I picked it up, studied it and dropped it. At the opposite end of the park, I turned around and ran back to it.

I brought it home and pulled out the photo album, searching for the picture of George with his tail, curled like a question mark over his head, walking toward me. Undeniably smiling.

Shocked, I noted the spaces between the stripes of his tail. The white tip, which I had never before noticed. Everything, down to the depth of color, was the same as the piece of fur in my hand.

I thought I had dealt with the loss of George, but this sight, an undeniable statement of his death, brought it all back. The most recent picture I have, of George stretched out on the carpet staring with some measure of boredom at a small, very much alive garter snake he'd brought into the house, is thumbtacked above my desk. I think I kept it there out of some small hope that the animal communicator was right and someday, he'd return. The picture was there to remind me that he could be out there, locked in someone's house somewhere, one open door away from home.

I have sat here, crying, morbidly stroking this stiff piece of tail, its texture just the same as George's soft coat. It's like I am petting him for the last time.

I'm meeting a friend out for a birthday drink in only about half an hour. It's time to wash my face, reapply my makeup, and throw away all that remains of George. Throw it deep into the trash can where Robby never will see it.

And think ahead to the kitten I plan to put under the Christmas tree for my son.

That little feline will be loved well and kept completely inside. Likely, all that love will create a cat with huge personality.

But I know, as I knew when I owned him, that George is that rare pet that comes along once in a lifetime - the best of its species, the one against which all other cats or dogs must almost unfairly be measured. These are the animals you feel lucky to own. As though this creature chose you, knowing you deserved and needed such a dazzling spark of life.

Perhaps, that day we first saw him in the Buena Vista Animal Shelter, when he so immediately captivated Robby that my son refused to even look at the younger kittens, that's what he did. He chose us.

Back from my drink, under dark skies, I take Ally for a walk to the park. George's tail is in my hand. I'm bound for the trash can there. I walked around on the path, away from the trash can that borders the softball diamond, north toward Kohl's, away from it again. I brush the fur across my cheek. I do not want to let it go. What harm would it be to carry it in my pocket? Something soft and reassuring, a reminder of something so fun and alive.

How much this desire is like other things in my life, surely in everyone's lives. I struggle with letting go of relationships that are dead. I cling to memories, to anything really, any small sign of hope that perhaps things can return to the way they were. I don't let go, no matter how damning the evidence that something is dead. Accepting the loss is giving up, losing control. How difficult that is for us all.

I almost walk by the trash can. It is with true effort that I stop the movement of my feet. I pull off my glove, stroke the fur with my hand, hold it over the can, hesitate and let it go.

POSTSCRIPT

As a final tribute, I'm posting here part of an old entry about George.

Jan. 19, 2006

My dog, cat and I went for a walk in the falling snow tonight.

Yes, that's right -- my cat goes, too.

George walks with Ally and I in rain and sun, dark and bitterly cold.

I used to shorten my walks when George first began accompanying Ally and me, conscious of his very short legs and a lung capacity I foolishly thought was compromised by size. Then, after several attempts to carry him in which he kicked and struggled to be free, I realized he likes our evening strolls. He follows Ally and me up and down the streets of our hilly neighborhood on walks that sometimes last 90 minutes.

Passers-by sometimes pull over, peering out of their car window to ask, "Is that your cat?" Yes indeed, I say, that's my cat. "He thinks he's a dog," I say this part in a loud whisper, so they understand how delicate is his image, and how deeply entrenched this conviction is in his wee kitty head. They laugh uproariously and pull away, shaking their heads.

Tonight's weather seemed to suit him especially well. I think it suited all three of us well.

We walked on sidewalks deep with snow, snow so fresh that almost no one had yet shoveled it. George alternated between lagging behind, sometimes crying piteously for us to wait, and sprinting past us, his tail fat as a bottle brush with excitement. He ran repeatedly off the sidewalk into the deepest snow -- more than knee deep on a cat. He chirped when I bent to pet him, so happy he didn't just bump his head against my hand but stood on his hind legs and arched his orange neck grandly to do so.

Ally loped ahead of us for the most part, sometimes giving short chase to nervous rabbits, sometimes dragging her snout through the fresh snow and snorting as it went up her nose. She dropped and rolled in it on her back, turning for a moment from black to white, two coal black eyes looking out from her snow-packed face.

She's a fine pet, too, with a serious and gentle soul. A dog trainer who met her told me she would kill to protect my son Robby and me. But I realize, with some measure of guilt, that she hasn't crawled under my heart like her quirky little brother.

He's a strange little fellow, with an admirable and comedic spirit. I already know he's the best cat I'll ever have.